“Yeah, but…nobody knows yet what the schedule is. Either series. We won‘t know until next year, right?”
“I guess,” Harvey sighed, a hint of resignation in his voice.
Jimmy didn‘t know what else to say.
“Hey Slim,” Harvey called out. “Let‘s get going…I‘m hungry. I want to stop and eat.”
Harvey and Slim climbed into the truck, and with a final wave to Jimmy drove away. Jimmy just stood there, watching as the truck and trailer disappeared through the pit opening.
The following evening Lou Warren was in a warm mood as he ushered Jimmy into his small office. His old office chair squeaked as he sat down, and he motioned toward a chair in front of his desk.
He slid something across the desk, and Jimmy took a look. It was a contract of several pages, stapled together in the corner.
“It‘s just like we agreed,” Lou began, pointing at different places on the agreement. “A two-year deal, with a monthly salary of $1,750. Here on page three is your percentage deal.
“The first $50 grand the car makes, we‘ll pay you 25 percent. From $50 to $100 grand, you get 30 percent. Anything over $100 grand, you‘re entitled to 35 percent.”
Jimmy studied the contract. He didn‘t know how to read all the legal stuff, but he kinda figured the gist of it.
“Lou, what happens if I get hurt?”
“If you‘re hurt in our car, your salary continues. If you‘re hurt in somebody else‘s car, your salary stops until you can race again. It‘s all spelled out in page two…right here.”
Jimmy nodded.
“I guess we need to talk about that,” Lou said, and he looked intently at Jimmy. “You‘ve probably guessed that we have to put the kibosh on sprint cars.”
“Well…I didn‘t know that for sure. I was hoping not.”
“Look, Jimmy…I‘m a racer, too. I started out in sprint cars, and I still love ‘em. But the Meteor Foods team is a business. You are a key employee of that business. We hired you because we believe you will develop into a championship caliber driver, capable of winning at Indy and anywhere else. We‘re investing in you.
“It‘s a serious blow to our team if you can‘t race. Like I said, I love sprint cars. I know you love ‘em, too. But we‘ve got to manage our risk.”
“OK, Lou. I understand. But how about if I cut back to a limited number of sprint car races? That‘s managing our risk, isn‘t it?”
Lou laughed. “Listen, I know what you‘re thinking. As a racer, I can‘t say that I blame you.
“But let me put it this way, Jimmy…if your intent is to run a bunch of sprint car races next season, let‘s not bother signing this contract. I‘m looking for somebody who is focused on Indy cars, and our team. If you don‘t want that focus, I respect your position. But that‘s not a good fit for us, Jimmy.”
Jimmy stared at the document on the table. It felt like everything was coming at him pretty fast.
“However,” Lou said, nodding his head for emphasis. “I‘ll give you the green light for the Champ Dirt cars. They don‘t race very often, and I‘m OK with you doing that. As a matter of fact, maybe we‘ll get my Dirt car out and go racing again. And we‘ll also allow you to run with the USAC stock cars.
“The understanding is that our Championship schedule is your top priority. When our weekends don‘t conflict, you‘re free to race Champ Dirt or USAC stock cars. But no sprint cars, Jimmy. That‘s the way it‘s got to be.”